


The Secret Sister

by WritingOutLoud



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Don't copy to another site, Episode Fix-It: s04e03 The Final Problem, First Kiss, I Love You Scene (Sherlock: The Final Problem), M/M, POV John Watson, The Well scene (Sherlock)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 12:30:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20082244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingOutLoud/pseuds/WritingOutLoud
Summary: What if the secret sister wasn't Sherlock's? And the coffin was never meant for Molly, we all know who really loves Sherlock Holmes...A TFP fix-it.





	1. Chapter 1

There's a bomb in our sitting room.

It sits, ugly and crooked, staring at us from the carpeted floor. We stare back. Sherlock and I stand either side of it, bodies vibrating with adrenaline and fear. Just another day in the office.

Our eyes meet and the unspoken question flashes in my eyes like a warning. God help me, Sherlock better not have known about this.

"I have honestly no idea." He replies, clenching his hands to try and steady them. Just moments before we'd both been in our chairs, arguing softly about whether radioactive eyes belonged in the fridge. Neither of our hearts were in it, but we argued for old times sakes. I kept swallowing smiles and gentle giggles, trying not to look too much like a teenager on his first date. I was happy to be home again. To have my life back how I want it. Almost.

Then the bomb had arrived. Well, to be accurate, it had flown in through the window, attached to a drone, and sat itself in the middle of our sitting room- daring us to challenge it.

And now it just sits and waits.

"Isn't there meant to be a countdown on these sorts of things? Or an explosion?" I see Sherlock stifle a smile at that, trying not to laugh when there is quite literally a bomb sat between us.

"Maybe it's just a little slow." He replies, not missing a beat.

"So, what now?"

"It has a motion-sensing device on the top. I've seen these before. If we move even the slightest it will go off." The slight humour that had been occupying his face slides away and steely resolve takes its place. Back to business.

"So we just stand here forever?"

"Basically." He flicks his eyes up to meet mine, a thousand unspoken words flowing through them. I try and read each one- desperate to know what he's thinking. Before I get the chance to ask, however, the bomb speaks:

"Did you miss me?"

Our gazes immediately shoot back to the device, fear and confusion filling the room like a gale. It squeezes my lungs, stealing my breath. It can't be. Not again.

"Did you miss me?"

The bomb keeps repeating the phrase over and over in a warbled, robotic voice. There must be a speaker embedded somewhere on its outer casing, invisible to the naked eye. Sherlock and I remain silent, unsure of what to do with this new information.

"How long do we have between us moving and it blowing up?" I ask, afraid of the answer. My voice cracks a little. I had thought that this was all behind us. Stupid really.

"About three seconds." My stomach falls. That's not enough time. "John- if we move even in the slightest it would start the countdown. You won't be able to speak to anyone, I'm sorry-" I'm confused for a second before I realise what he's implying. Rosie. I won't be able to say goodbye to Rosie. I had forgotten her in the rush of adrenaline filling my veins. I mentally kick myself. A bit not good, John. A bit not good.

"Oh." My response is weak and limp, the knowledge that Rosie could be out there alone for the rest of her life filling me with terror. She can't afford to lose another parent. I might not have given her the best start, but I'll be damned if she grows up alone. She deserves more than that.

"We might have time to get to the windows," Sherlock pulls me from my thoughts: "If we take one each we might be able to outrun-"

He doesn't finish his sentence, however, because the bomb blows up before he gets the chance.

*

The sheets around me are soft and velvety. They stroke my skin and almost convince me to fall back asleep before I remember what just happened. The bomb.

I sit up with a start, trying to ignore the pounding headache in my temples. Sherlock is pacing, walking back and forth next to a long window at the far end of the room.

"Good morning." He quips, barely looking over. He keeps pacing, crossing the room in three long strides before turning and walking back again.

The room looks like some kind of semicircular cell, lined with glass on the flat side. Other than the bed I'm lying in and a small, grey desk in the corner, it is empty.

"There was a bomb-" I start, but Sherlock cuts me off before I can continue.

"Filled with tranquilliser. Knocked us both out. I woke about five minutes before you did." Ah. Hence the headache.

"Do you know why we're here?" It's a pointless question but I feel compelled to ask anyway. Sherlock doesn't bother to reply.

Slowly I make my way off the bed, stretching my limbs as I go. They feel heavy and dull, as if I have pins and needles across my body. When I can stand, I walk over to the still pacing Sherlock and place my hand on his shoulder. He immediately stops and turns to look at me, quickly composing his face so that I don't know what emotions are running through his head. I hate it when he does that. I want to ask him what he's thinking, what's going on in that strange brain of his. I want to know what fifty different scenarios he's calculating to get us out of here. I don't. Instead, I ask:

"Are you alright?" My voice feels clumsy and broken, but he nods all the same before resuming his pacing. I suppose it helps him think.

"Ah, put them in a cage and they walk around like rats." A cold, empty voice echoes around the room and a television screen flickers into life behind the glass wall. It shows a woman, dressed in white with long dark hair. She is sat at a desk, her eyes flickering between us with something that can only be described as curiosity burning in her eyes. I try not to think about it too much. It's unnerving.

"Who are you? Why have you brought us here?" Sherlock calls out, finally stopping his pacing and settling in one corner of the room.

"I'm the one in charge here." She warns, her voice dripping with a soft Irish lilt. "Though, I suppose, for this to have the full effect you best know who I am."

"The name's Euros. Euros Moriarty."

It feels as if the air has been sucked out of the room. Not another one. Please, God. There can't be another one. Sherlock says nothing, his face perfectly composed to give nothing away. The bastard. I wish I could do it - I'm sure my face reveals everything.

"Interesting. You both have very different reactions. I'll be sure to make a note of it. Now, I will let you both go as long as you do exactly what I say."

"You're lying." I blurt out before I can stop myself. I hope I sound more assertive than desperate. Euros' face remains blank and expressionless.

"Maybe. But you'll never know." She pauses a moment as if she's trying to add dramatic effect. God, she really is a Moriarty.

"My brother hated you. Or maybe he loved you, sometimes I find it hard to tell the difference. Regardless, he was obsessed. I never understood it. I want to understand." She sounds like a small child asking her parents how the world works. It fills me with a strange sort of nausea. Jim might have been crazy but Euros is a whole other level.

"He died because of you. They said I should have been sad but I don't understand that either. I was just confused. Why would he set out to end you and then kill himself?" Sherlock flinches at that. I know he still thinks about it. Moriarty was insane and he tore our lives apart, but neither of us wanted to see him dead. Behind bars, yes, but not dead. Especially not right in front of us. Well, Sherlock at least.

"So, you're going to do some things for me. If you're good, I'll let you go. If not, well. James wasn't the only one who knew about Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Maybe this time we'll throw Molly in for good measure." I feel a shiver of fear rip through my body and I thank Christ that Rosie is at daycare rather than with any of them. It won't be long though until Euros knows about her- if she doesn't already.

There's a dull clunking to my right and a hidden door slides open with a groan. Beyond it lies a corridor that swings to the left, hiding whatever waits beyond. My heart feels like its twisting on its axis, each beat tangling it further and further in its vessels.

"In you go, I'll see you shortly." The scene flickers black.

A breath I didn't realise I was holding escapes my lips and my lungs feel immediately lighter. My heart still twists on. Sherlock turns to look at me, his eyes questioning. He doesn't seem alarmed, despite the fact the composed mask has fallen away.

"What do we do now?" I ask, and the words hit the floor with an odd clunk. I know inside exactly what we have to do, but I'm hoping that perhaps there's another way. I'm hoping, against my better judgement, that Sherlock has a miraculous plan that involves both of us getting out of here alive without doing what this madwoman says.

"What we're told." His voice is so soft and smooth, with barely a hint of panic.

‘How long have you known?" I mean to sound strong and Captain Watson like, but instead, the question comes out with exasperation and defeat. I should have known.

Sherlock lowers his head in something like shame. There was a time when he would have shown off. He would have had great pleasure playing Euros' game and trying to one-up her at every turn, giving no care for the gravitas of the situation. Now he just seems exhausted. We've been through this so many times now, each time more ridiculous than the last. Will no-one let us rest? This game's no fun anymore.

"For a while. I didn't know she existed but I assumed someone had plans for us. We never did find out who sent the ‘Miss me?'. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I didn't want to worry you." For once he does seem genuinely sorry. I am grateful for it, if not slighting disconcerted.

"Well, it's a bit late to be angry about that now. Though, if we get out of this, we'll need to talk about it." I have a daughter now, I add silently. I need to know how to protect her from us.

Sherlock nods, still not quite meeting my eye. He knows exactly what I didn't mention. There's an unspoken understanding between us that if we're to move back in together, if life is to return to normal, then we can't be the same us that we were before. No more spontaneous chases around London, no putting or lives at risk in stupid circumstances. It's not just us anymore. We can't go right back to how we used to be. And don't get me wrong, I understand if he doesn't want that, if he still wants to risk his life confronting the criminal classes- he'll just have to do it alone. However, something tells me he doesn't want to.

I take a deep breath and walk towards the door with as much courage as I can muster, stopping only to look over my shoulder.

"Into battle?" I ask. A shimmer of a memory shines in his eyes but it's gone so quickly that I can't be sure it was there at all. He smiles weakly, taking a few steps forward so that he's level with me.

"Into battle."


	2. Chapter 2

The next room is red; splatters of paint covering each of the walls like bloodstains. Undoubtedly this is the point, and it unnerves me. At least with Moriarty, Sherlock and I knew where we stood. There was a mutual understanding of his level of crazy. Of course, we were still consistently surprised by every action he made, but we were always expecting to be surprised. With Euros, I have no idea. She seems more cold and rational than Moriarty- less emotionally invested. Truth be told, this terrifies me. Emotionless criminals are always the most dangerous.

I glance at Sherlock as we make our way into the room, trying to judge whether he has a plan. Each flicker of his eye around the room betrays his uncertainty. No then. We are plan-less. Fantastic.

Much like the last room, this one is sparsely filled. A large table sits in the middle, a neat pile of documents resting in the centre. Again, one of the walls is completely glass but this time it faces outside, showing the sea beyond. Another TV screen rests on the wall opposite, Euros' face staring out. Other than that, it is empty. Well, save the figure of Mycroft Holmes sat at the far end of the table.

"Mycroft." Sherlock greets him as if this is the most normal thing in the world. At this point, it kind of is.

"I was wondering when you two would show up." Mycroft sniffs, trying his best to seem cool and collected despite the panic darting around in his eyes. He's not as good at this as his brother. "I would stand to greet you but I seem to be unable." He lifts his wrists slightly to show the thick rope cutting into them, binding him to the chair.

"I'll forgive you just this once." Sherlock quips, starting to walk around the outside of the room, no doubt trying to deduce everything about it. No-one so much as acknowledges Euros' peering face., preferring instead to pretend that we're all here by choice- some sort of warped family gathering. Mycroft and I catch each others eye and trade looks of trepidation. I wonder if he knew that Euros existed. Probably, the slimy bastard.

"Enough." The sentence punctures the air and deflates the almost jovial mood we'd been building. Without hesitation, Euros speaks again. "James was always so fascinated with how you interfered with his work. I never understood it, you were always just an annoyance to me. But he- he almost enjoyed it. Watching you dance." My gut tightens. Nothing good can come of this.

"Dance for me."

Sherlock's head shoots up at that, his mask slipping slightly. Careful, your human is showing.

"On the table is an envelope with case notes inside. I want you to solve it."

We all hesitate, silently deciding whether to obey.

"I'll add a little motivation, shall I?" Euros holds up a remote to the screen and behind us, beyond the window, three men hang by their waists- dangling above the shoreline. At the same time, Mycroft lets out an almighty yelp. I jump in surprise, staring wide-eyed as he begins to convulse in the chair. Sherlock rushes over but the convulsions stop just as quickly as they started.

"The chair on which the eldest Holmes is sat is electrified. Outside are the three suspects, all brothers. Alex, Howard and Nathan Garrideb. One of them was involved in a murder from a few months ago, involving a lawyer called Evans. The police couldn't figure out who'd done it, but of course, _we _knew. Solve the case and I'll let the innocent ones go."

Sherlock reaches forward and opens the envelope with ease, quickly spilling the contents over the table. They include four photos; three of men in their late thirties/ early forties and one of a corpse, presumably Evans. It's a standard crime scene photograph, showing the victim spread-eagled on a pavement, face down in a pool of blood that had leaked from his head.

"And we're supposed to solve this based on what?" I ask, a wave of soft anger simmering beneath my skin. This is utterly ridiculous.

Another yelp permeates the room and Mycroft tenses, electricity rippling through his body. Sherlock shoots me a warning glance before turning back to the papers.

"The murder weapon is above your head. All the information you need is in this room. Remember Dr Watson, you are not in control here." I bite my tongue to stop myself retorting.

"Alright," Sherlock starts, taking control of the moment. "What do you think of the rifle John?"

I take it down from its holder above us and it sinks heavily into my hands. I appreciate its weight and look down the sight, trying to remember if I have ever used or seen a rifle like this. "Uh, yes. It's a buffalo gun. 1940's, old-fashioned sight. A gun like this would give a huge kickback. Do any of them wear glasses?"

Sherlock frantically searches the pictures, settling on the brother with the grey square-shaped glasses.

"No cuts or bruises, it can't be him. Next." He turns the photo over and goes to look at the other two.

"Now, Howard's a life long drunk. The pallor of his skin, terminal gin blossoms on his red nose… and bad and case of the DT's. He couldn't have taken that shot with enough accuracy. So, it must have been Alex." Sherlock's voice goes from quick-fire deductions to soft deliberation. He's making sure he's condemning the right man. This right here, this is the side of him that only a few people get to see, myself included. It's the part that sends shivers through my heart. In these moments, it's difficult to forget how much I love him. But now is not the time. There is never a good time.

"Alex is the only one it could have been. He's the guilty one." Euros cock's her head slightly and the ghost of a smile passes her lips.

"Very good Mr Holmes. James was right about you." Right about what, she doesn't say. I swallow the question, glancing sideways at Mycroft. He is a little dishevelled, but otherwise alert and responsive.

"You said you'd let them go." Surprisingly, it is Mycroft who speaks, the words pushing their way between clenched teeth.

"I did, didn't I?" With that Euros presses another button which releases two of the brothers- Howard and Nathan. A noiseless scream hits the glass window as they go plummeting down onto the rocks below. Unable to stop myself, I wince and turn away, clenching my fists at my sides. Jesus.

"You said-" I start, but catch myself. The anger is boiling now, scorching my skin. I want to shout, scream- anything. But I don't. Mycroft is still in the firing line.

"You learn fast Dr Watson. Yes, I said I'd let them go. I never said I'd set them free." I curse under my breath, trying to gain control of the anger which is threatening to spill over.

A hand places itself on my shoulder, giving a slight squeeze. I smile gratefully at Sherlock, pushing down the part of me that just wants to pull him into an embrace. In moments like these, I can sometimes kid myself that I am not alone in my feelings. That maybe, just maybe, there's something here between us. Each time I remind myself that this is Sherlock. He's not interested in relationships and believes love to be a disadvantage. Anything I think I see is a figment of my want.

After a few seconds that feel like minutes, his hand slips off my shoulder and he turns to Euros.

"Right about what?"

"James always admired the fact that you could suppress your emotions to gain better reasoning. I didn't believe him, but you have just proven me wrong." Euros pauses for a beat, her eyes widening in anticipation. "Let's see if we can change that."

Sherlock's body tenses in front of me, his fingers twitching against his leg. His façade is slipping. Everyone, Euros now apparently included, believes Sherlock to be an emotionless machine of reason and logic. I, however, know the truth. He's no more of a sociopath than I am. Sure, he can suppress it better than most people, and sometimes his emotional state seems strange to everyone but him, however, he is more emotional than he lets people believe. The difference is he uses those. He devotes everything to the work, leaving no room for the emotional outlets that the rest of us have; relationships, friendships. Instead, everything is about the Work. It always will be, and I have accepted that. I'm okay with it.

Euros presses another button on her remote and the ceiling above us opens, lowering a coffin onto the table in front of us.


	3. Chapter 3

"Before we begin, I'm going to apply some context to the next situation." Euros study's Sherlock intently, barely giving Mycroft and I a second glance. It's clear to see who she's really here for.

I always wondered what Moriarty's deal was. Why he was so invested in Sherlock. If he had chosen, he could have gotten him out of the way easily. Surely the consulting criminal had enough contacts to arrange for Sherlock's removal. And yet, he didn't. He played with him as a cat plays with a mouse. He tried to out-smart him.

"Go on." Euros coaxes, and Sherlock steps forward to examine the coffin without having to be asked. He knows the drill.

Sherlock takes a breath and begins to deduce everything about the coffin lying in front of us. I barely keep up with the speed of it. On any other day, it's beautiful to watch. Today, it's a little painful, knowing that he's having his strings pulled.

He paces around the coffin and I do my best to help where I can. Not that he needs it, I just like to feel useful.

"Yes Sherlock, very good. Or we could just look at the name on the lid," Mycroft interrupts. A plaque is nailed into the pale wood, resting on Mycroft's end of the table.

‘_I love you'._ It reads. Oh.

"So it's for somebody who loves somebody." I try to hide the tremor in my voice, mostly unsuccessfully. I know deep down what this is about, but I'm clinging to the hope that perhaps she means someone else. Perhaps she doesn't know.

"It's for somebody who loves Sherlock. So, who loves you?" Mycroft gives me a very pointed look.

Shit. If he knows, then of course she does. She would have worked it out within seconds of seeing me. I mean, everyone else thinks we're a couple. Why wouldn't she? I return the look with one I hope says ‘Don't you dare say anything.' but I think comes across more as uncontrolled panic.

Sherlock seems oblivious. He's standing with his hands planted on the coffin, facing Euros.

"Irene Adler?" I'm clinging at straws I know, but I can't help myself. I have carried this secret with me for a very long time, it growing heavier with each passing year. I'm not ready to let go of it just yet. To give it to him.

"Don't be ridiculous, she was gay. Also, just look at the coffin. Unmarried, practical about death. Alone."

There is silence for a moment. It is laced with tension, an unspoken truth sitting heavily in the centre. And then he looks at me. I can tell by his eyes that he knows. God, those gorgeous eyes. They are filled with a mixture of soft hopefulness and deep sadness. I want to kiss his closed lids and make it all go away.

"I'm sorry," I whisper instead. I'm not sure what for. For loving him? I could never be. For having him find out like this? Yes. A thousand times over.

"Don't be." His eyes flicker over my face before he turns back to Euros. "What now? What's the next step in this little game of yours?" He spits out the words as if they're poison in his mouth.

"Patience, Sherlock. You've not played it properly yet. I want to hear him say it." She cocks her head like this is all some fascinating experiment. My blood boils with rage. He knows, isn't that enough? Is it really necessary that I sit through the pain and rejection? I have lived for so long with the knowledge that how I feel will never be requited. I have come to terms with it, knowing that I would rather have him as a friend than not at all.

"Please, don't make me." Despite myself, I still beg, purposefully avoiding Sherlock's eye. I can feel it scorching my skin. Burning the air between us. Mycroft crumples in his seat again, and I can tell Euros has just sent another wave of electricity coursing through him. To his credit, Mycroft stays stony silent, his hands gripping the armrests so hard his knuckles turn white.

Euros frowns a little at the lack of a reaction. She didn't expect Mycroft to care. The frown barely lasts a second before Euros turns back to me.

"John, you have a daughter don't you?" She doesn't say any more, preferring to let the sentence take my breath away. No. Not Rosie. This, this is important to me but nothing compares to Rosie.

I dip my head and close my eyes, trying to muster the strength. This is what I have been afraid of all these years. His face when he finally knows. When he tells me, again, that he's all very flattered but he doesn't do relationships and there's always the work and-

I take a deep breath and force myself to look up at him. He's still staring, trying to comprehend what is happening in front of him.

"John." There is a very small whisper in the corner of the room. Its tone urges me to hurry up. Not for his sake, but for my daughters. I have no doubts that Euros would not draw the line at harming a child.

"Yeah, I know." I gulp and jump in headfirst.

"Sherlock, I love you." His face is unreadable. I can't tell if that's better or worse; whether he is trying to spare me by keeping it inside. I tear my gaze away from his and back to Euros.

"Are you happy now?" I ask, my voice hitching. Soldiers, John. This is for Rosie. This isn't about you anymore.

"Well, Sherlock. I'm surprised you didn't know already. It seems that everyone knows how Dr Watson feels about you, even his wife. Moriarty thought he'd discovered some big secret but really, it's plain as day." Euros delivers a warped smile. "With this context applied, it's time to decide. Only two of you can play the next game, and I want to see who you choose. It's make-your-mind-up time. John, or Mycroft. Choose one and kill the other."

My stomach drops and my heart flies into my mouth. This is it. The part we've all been hoping would never arrive. Despite hoping we would never have to make this decision, I have already made mine. Euros knows it- that's why the coffin is here. My coffin. I will not make it out of here alive. Between the Holmes brothers, I am the most easily disposable. A soldier who will die for his country. Nothing more.

For a long time, no-one says anything. Our voices seem to have been stolen by Euros' instructions. Finally, I find mine.

"Look after Rosie for me." The sentence seems to echo in the silence. Sherlock turns to look at me, utter surprise dripping over his face. He wasn't expecting that. I'm not sure why not. I have been prepared to die for Sherlock Holmes for a very long time. Today is the day that it will finally, inevitably, happen.

"Dr Watson-" Mycroft starts, the shock creeping into his voice. He's better at hiding it than Sherlock, but it's still there.

"No," I interrupt. "We all know that you're needed more. You run the bloody government for Christ's sake. Just, please, look after Rosie. She deserves more than this." A wave of calm washes over me. I thought I would be more frightened, staring death in the face like this. I certainly was the first time. I suppose now I'm ready for it. I have glimpsed death more times than I care to remember over these last 10 years; we're becoming old friends.

Sherlock catches my eye and shakes his head. It's so slight, I'm not convinced I didn't imagine it. Slowly, he raises his gun and points it not at me, but Mycroft. I hadn't anticipated this.

"Despite your chivalry, John, you fail to see that Sherlock could never shoot you. This was never a decision for you to make. You seem to have falsely convinced yourself that your sentiments are one-sided."

"Mycroft-" Sherlock goes to interrupt but Mycroft talks over him.

"Of course she knows, Sherlock. There's no point denying it. It won't keep him safe. You're beyond that now. Just, make it quick." He shuffles in his seat as much as the bindings will allow, "I'm sorry it had to be this way."

Sherlock's hand trembles, the gun barely staying steady. This is the first time I have ever seen him truly terrified. It's odd. He looks so small and vulnerable, like a child holding a water pistol. I want to scoop him up, to make it all okay. But it won't be. This will never be okay.

His eyes flick quickly to me, then back to Mycroft. His hand steadies and in one smooth motion he draws the gun under his chin, the barrel digging into his porcelain flesh.

"I will not be part of this game anymore. There is no choice. I will not choose between the people that I love." My heart skips over the words. I compose myself before it shows on my face. Now is not the time. Later. I can process this later, if later ever comes.

"10, 9, 8-" The countdown is smooth and steady. Finally, he's gaining control. Euros begins to shriek from the screen, the first sign of emotion that she has shown. She's starting to lose, and she knows it.

"6, 5, 4-" A sharp scratch pierces my neck and I reach round to find a small tranquilliser dart embedded in my skin. Darkness immediately surrounds my vision and the last thing I hear before I am sucked under is the soft whispering of my name across the room.


	4. Chapter 4

Shivering. I am woken by the strength of my shivering. Wherever I am it is freezing, not helped by the two feet of water I am sat in. As soon as I am able, I stand and try to make sense of where I am. The room is small and round- if I stood in the middle I could easily stretch my arms out to touch either side of it. Its walls are made of wet, slippery stone. When I look up, I can see stars. Ah. Not a room at all- a well. I'm in a fucking well.

I try and swallow the surge of panic boiling in my throat. It burns my jaw and tightens my trachea, making it harder and harder to breathe. Get it together, Watson. Panicking won't help. You can't afford to panic.

"Sherlock!" I call out into the darkness, my voice reverberating off the stone around me. There's no reply. Right.

Gradually I become aware of a trickling sound. I look around me, desperately trying to find the source in the gloom. My eyes are still adjusting, so it takes me a moment to notice the pipe protruding from the wall, barely breaching the waterline. Water leaks out of it, slowly causing the base level of water to rise.

"Shit. Shit, shit, SHIT!" I shout to nobody in particular, crouching down to inspect the pipe more closely. I can probably slow the water down if I find something to plug into the hole. With desperation, I run my hands over the floor of the well, trying to find some loose stones or something small enough to stop the flow of water. I come up empty-handed.

Underneath the water, I can feel my toes starting to go numb in my shoes. I try to walk around the well to get the blood flowing through them again, but I am stopped by a chain wrapped around my ankle.

"Oh, that's just brilliant, bloody brilliant," I announce to myself, folding my arms around my body to try and retain some warmth. Think Watson.

After a moment's contemplation, I peel off my jacket and shirt underneath; the fabric clings to me like a second skin. I replace the jacket, struggling to push my arms through the wet sleeves, and carefully roll up the shirt into a long sausage shape. Carefully, I feed it through the pipe and push it as far along as I can, in a feeble attempt to slow the flow of water. Thankfully, it works. Some water still drips out of the end, frankly more than I would have liked, but the speed of its flow is greatly reduced. I've bought myself some extra time to work out how to get out of here.

The chains on my ankle are strong and sturdy; unable to be pried apart by my shaking hands. With nothing to hand to break them, I am resigned to stay here until help can arrive. If it arrives.

I try not to ponder what will happen to me if no-one finds me. If Rosie is left on her own. God, _Rosie_. She's not even a year old and she's already gone through more than most full-grown adults.

I lean back into the wall and close my eyes, desperately trying to picture her face. When I left her, she was sleeping in her carrier, soft snuffles escaping her lips as she dreamt. I know I've not been the best of fathers, and it kills me to think that now I might not get the chance.

After a while, another thought seeps through- one that I have been pointedly avoiding. Sherlock holding Rosie at Baker street, her small frame fitting perfectly into his arms. When he looks down at her, there is love in his eyes. Her fingers cling to his shirt; a smile plastered over her face. I watch from the sidelines, desperately holding on to this family of my dreams. Normally, I would distract myself- chase the thought out of my brain before I can become too hopeful; too attached. For now, however, I let it linger. Indulging myself in one final fantasy.

Memories of earlier in the day come flooding back, disrupting my imaginary family. Shit. How could I have forgotten? If- heavy emphasis on the _if_\- I get out of this, things will never be the same. I'm still not sure what was running through Sherlock's head in that moment, but I'm sure to find out. I'm not sure I can deal with losing him again.

Eventually, after what feels like hours but I know can't be that long really, the shivering stops. Alarm bells ring in the back of my mind, but I'm too far gone to register them properly. I'm aware that the water level has risen considerably- it now reaches just under my chin. It won't be long until it's over my head. I keep trying to blink and move around on the spot, fending off the fingers of sleep that are trying to claim me. I won't go without a fight.

"John!" The voice echoes off the walls and through my ears. For a moment I think that I am dreaming, that I've finally succumbed to sleep and this is all in my head.

"John, can you hear me?" The voice calls again, desperation dripping from each word.

I blink rapidly. No, this is real. Dreams aren't usually this cold.

"Sher-" I start, but my voice is bitten off at the ends. My throat is raw and catches as I try to speak. Next to me, something splashes in the water, causing small waves to break against the walls. After a few minutes, there's a second splash and the voice is suddenly right in front of me.

"John, hold on. We're going to get you out. I'm here, just hold on for me. Please." Sherlock's voice is sharp with desperation. His face is shadowed by the moonlight, but I can see lines of worry drawn across his face. I try to reply, but the words scratch my throat again and become all mixed together.

"You don't need to speak, just stay with me." As he speaks I feel Sherlock's arms wrap around me, lifting me out of the water as far as the chain will allow. Despite his reassurance, I try again, coughing slightly to clear my throat. This time the words come out almost perfectly.

"Things must be really bad, you actually said please." At that, Sherlock lets out a nervous laugh, his breath tickling my ear.

"The paramedics will be here any minute. I'm sorry I didn't find you sooner."

"I knew you'd find me eventually. It's alright." A pause. "Euros?"

"Dead. She panicked when I deviated from her plan. She was there when I woke up, but I didn't give her time to try anything else."

"Right. Good."

There's silence for a moment; the elephant in the room paddles between us.

"Look," I start, working up the courage to speak first. Sherlock's body heat is starting to seep through my skin. "Is there any chance we can forget about earlier? I don't want to lose my best friend and I know you're not interested in relationships and-"

My ramblings are broken off by warm lips pressing against my cold ones. For a second I am still, my brain trying to process what's happening. Then, after a few seconds, I melt into it. Instinctively my hand creeps up to the back of his head, taking a fistful of wet curls. The hands around my waist squeeze tighter and it's not long before I have to break apart for air.

"Sherlock-"

"No. I kindly request that we don't forget about earlier. You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear those words." I lean in again and smile against his lips.

"I might have some idea."

We stay there, Sherlock holding me up out of the water and stealing kisses between breaths, until a light shines down from the top of the well. Regretfully, we break apart as a voice calls down, informing us that the paramedics are here and that someone is coming down to cut my chains. I'm almost annoyed to be interrupted, this moment of clarity stolen by reality, but then I realise that we have the rest of our lives for this. No more hiding.

"Sherlock? I love you." I feel the smile rather than see it, and his mouth captures mine in one final kiss.

"John Watson, I love you too."


End file.
